


Objectively

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - TechNoir, M/M, Painplay, So Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 23:09:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15873603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Objectively, Anton shouldn't be where he is.





	Objectively

**Author's Note:**

> I have been sucked into this, and I am dragging you with me.

Viktor is handsome. Objectively, he might be not: unless kept short, his hair sticks into all directions, half of it is shaved off to give access to the cranial port; his eyes are cold and gray and he has a habit of peering into you without blinking. The crude aug-work on his throat and his lower jaw makes his voice take on a metallic quality on certain days. Under all the layers of his uniform, he is a mess of scars—a sign of just how many fucks the ASC gives. He is too thin, because he is extremely picky of his food but would gladly survive only on rations (a thing of his Anton finds entirely abhorrent).

Objectively, he’s a nosy, obsessive bastard who wouldn’t hesitate to use dirty tricks or to kill. He uses language and people like weapons, like tools.

Objectively—but Anton hasn’t been objective for fifteen years, not since Vik had stumbled into his office after having fought off his guards, pale from pain and biting his lips until they bled, and asked for help. Not since Anton took one look at the back of his neck, the base of his skull still bloody, recognizing the butcherwork that is so signature of the ASC.

They didn’t even check how he would deal with it. They didn’t even give him meds. They just fitted him with implants they needed, tuning their tool how they saw fit.

Viktor still thinks of himself as a tool. They fight a lot over it.

Objectively, Anton should have killed him all those years ago.

Subjectively…

Anton sighs at his thoughts, sitting up on the bed. The panel over the bed becomes brighter, but he dims it again with a wave, though he knows Vik isn’t asleep. He is pretending well, but both of them know it doesn’t fool Anton.

Objectively, they should have gotten tired of each other ages ago. Objectively, they should have killed each other even sooner than that.

Vik is lying on his stomach and hugging a pillow, sheets kicked down to his waist. And, subjectively, Anton is admiring him. There is a bruise blooming yellow at the edges on Vik’s left side. There is gnarled discolored scar tissue along the right side just over his waist. There are webs of scars from electric burns. There are round bullet scars.

There is the angry red of the skin around the cranial port, inflamed after the most recent use.

Anton bends over Vik, propping himself on the bed near his right shoulder, and places a kiss just below the port (there are many creative ways to use that port, but when it's abused like this, it would be more painful than pleasurable).

The rhythm of Vik’s breathing doesn’t change, deep and even, but it does not fool Anton.

Fifteen years is enough to learn him in all his terrible glory.

Anton doesn’t move away after the kiss, but shifts his weight onto his right hand to slide his left over Vik’s side to the bruise. It’s a bruise from a blunt hit, and Anton can scan and check whether the ribs under it are fractured... But he doesn’t. Instead, he cups the spot—and presses.

Vik’s breathing doesn’t change.

Anton frowns and adds more pressure, slowly, slowly—until the rhythm of breathing stutters, shifts, becomes faster and more shallow. Vik’s skin is hot. Anton shifts his weight again, adding it to the pressure until the bone underneath starts giving in—and Vik moans into the pillow.

Anton eases out, but keeps his palm over the bruise, plants a kiss near the inflamed skin surrounding the port.

“Tosha.” It’s muffled, and there is that metallized quality to the sound, but— Fifteen years.

So Anton kisses lower down Vik’s neck and asks, “More?”

The tattoo on Vik’s right shoulder, his number in the ASC system (2-4-1183-671), shifts. Once, he had a different tattoo: it was invisible in most circumstances, allowing him to perform his duties without being exposed. But now, he’s too prominent a face, and there is no need for discretion. The ASC likes to brand its tools: it’s useful for catalogization and maintenance. Much as it makes Anton angry, he takes consolation in the fact that Viktor carries his brand, too.

“More,” comes a breathless reply.

Anton smiles. He doesn’t give Vik what he wants right away. Instead, he runs his fingers only lightly over the skin. Vik squirms away, and Anton’s smile widens, as he makes his touch even lighter, drawing circles on Vik’s skin. The ASC never thought to rid him of ticklishness.

Before Vik decides to do something to stop it, though, Anton returns his hand to that yellowing spot—and keeps his hand there. A promise. He relishes in the quickening of Vik’s breathing.

He is sure Vik has chosen this position—on his stomach—deliberately. But Anton has trouble guessing what game Vik is playing. They have been playing so many games.

It keeps the marks Anton left on his body out of sight.

He remembers it well: the fractured mandible, the broken clavicle, a collapsed lung. He _burned_ with hate and pain then, and Vik goaded him and he let himself be goaded like a fool. He wonders whether Vik hoped he would kill him, that time. But Vik lived, and his agency fitted him with augmetics. Again.

Anton presses just as slowly as before, until Vik’s shoulders move, shoulder blades coming together. Until his breathing stops for a few moments—and then resumes, fast, shallow.

Anton drops his forehead to Vik’s shoulder. “Полковник?”

“Да?” Vik’s voice is strained.

Anton rubs a thumb over his rib. “I want you again.”

Vik arches under him, and Anton pulls back to prevent his weight crushing Vik, and then smears a kiss over his cheek and the corner of his lips.

Vik looks so tired.

Both of them are so tired.

“All right,” Vik murmurs. “All right.”

Objectively, Anton shouldn’t be here.

Subjectively, he is quite fine where he is.


End file.
